A Clockwork Neurosis
by past sinner
Summary: You and I are like when fire and the ocean floor collide - Saves the Day (h/d slash)
1. Waste of a Mama's Boy

For some random reason, I got bored one day and decided to see what the hell was up with the 20,000 Harry Potter fics on FF.net... One of the first ones I read was an very well-written DracoxHarry slashy fic (Your Side, Their Side, and the Truth by Mizzy) and, well... Here goes nothing.   
  
Expect some weirdness... I usually write anime shounen ai/yaoi fics, and so I'm used to warning systems and stuff most HP readers won't get. Oh, well.  
  
Dedicated to Mizzy, one of the best Draco/Harry slashy authors. She's really sweet. *cheers* Now go write a new part! Please? Pretty please with Draco and Harry and whipped cream on top?  
  
Begun: November 15, 2001  
  
"A Clockwork Neurosis"  
  
Part One: Waste of a Mama's Boy  
Posted: December 1, 2001  
  
Ryan Harbin  
  
[I'm a waste of a mama's boy  
It's a shame they say  
There's so much you know he'll never enjoy]  
Angie Aparo, 'Hush'  
  
The boy - nearing manhood, but still only hovering at the cusp of maturity - strode purposefully through the underground, trailed by a diminutive figure pushing a cart heaped with antique trunks and topped dramatically with a silent owl perched in a metal frame cage. He ignored the stares that followed his every step, as if accustomed to being watched, judged.  
  
And perhaps he was, for it was hard to ignore such a figure, long and well-formed, wearing a perfectly fitted shirt matched with tailored pants that didn't seem to have been worn. He moved with the stiff, coached grace of aristocracy, and only breeding could produce such distinctive features, thin and aquiline, hauntingly pale. This particular boy was something, and he knew it.  
  
Indeed, his superiority had been instilled in him at birth, his bedtime stories tales of his line's glorious past and lullabies of his own promising future. His father's first lessons had been over the virtue of pure blood, a true wizarding history that could be traced back before anyone had even heard the name 'Potter.'  
  
He presented the perfect image of one at ease with his position in the world, at least until one bothers to look slightly past the clear gray eyes, so nicely matched with porcelain skin and ashy hair. For only then is it visible: a slight hint of... Nothing. Twin silver screens shielding a void, empty and lifeless as he said a passive goodbye to a pair obviously his parents, separating, every lean muscle tense, from his mother's clinging embrace as if every second had burned at the contact points.  
  
For a second he lingered beside the Hogwarts Express, a slight figure dwarfed by a shiny metal monolith. The trunk, a fine burnished wood with only slight wear from years of being carted from school to home and back again, raised a half dozen inches in the air and one slender arm still in its aborted levitation spell. A momentary pause, barely noticeable in the shuffle of schoolchildren rushing by him in various states of uniform, lugging their own trunks or scolding a petulant animal. One particularly thick cluster, four identical red heads tempered with one of unruly black, seemed to command his attention. Gray eyes gleamed momentarily, a flicker of interest that struggled to gain hold for a valiant second before he jerked his gaze away, dull eyes returning to the trunk to finish the spell. Another running figure, yelling jubilantly to a crowd of friends who answered just as happily, and then he was gone, only a brief flash of black robes to mark his passing.  
  
----  
  
Draco Malfoy settled stiffly into his seat, practiced sneer settling into place with the slight difficulty that comes from disuse, like a puzzle piece slightly warped with age. His trunk was safely stowed away, and if anything happened to it, his father could easily replace his lost belongings.   
  
The train began to move with a slight jerk of lost stasis and one last, piercing whistle. Crabbe and Goyle had yet to find him, likely because it had previously been Draco who had sought them out, and this year he found that he no longer cared. It was doubtful he'd need their assistance, taking refuge in the compartment furthest from the entrance, the far back corner of the last car.  
  
A first year, picking awkwardly at his robes, stepped into the doorway, unease scrawled plainly across his round face. Draco told himself that he had never actually been that small, never appeared that out of place in the garb of a wizard. Something about the boy's even features, neat, light brown hair and dark eyes seemed vaguely familiar, but he was unable to place them without probing deeper into his recollection, an option that didn't seem to be particularly pleasing. Better to sit numbly, absorbed in his best impression of a bump on a log.  
  
"Umm... Do you mind? I got up to go to the bathroom and when I came back these big guys were in my seat and they wouldn't leave and there's really no where else to sit so is it okay if I sit in here?" all rushed out in one breath.  
  
One silver eyebrow raised, bemused. Usually, Draco would have told the first year off and made sure Crabbe and Goyle - he supposed they were they 'big guys' in question - never let the kid sit down again without some sort of threat or taunt. But something particular about today, perhaps his father's particularly volatile morning, the results of which were mottled down his ribs and back, he didn't.  
  
"Do as you like," [1] he said, turning back to the speed-smeared landscape that blurred past like a late Monet painting. [2]  
  
The boy breathed a sigh of relief, moving to plop down opposite Draco, collapsing happily into the worn black velvet. He settled a small bag onto the seat beside him, rummaging through it for a few loud seconds.  
  
"Want one?" he asked, extending a hand toward his companion as if asking for alms.  
  
Draco looked dubiously at the offering, an unopened chocolate frog. Narrowed grey eyes flicked from the boy to the candy, searching for some sign of the deception he was sure existed. No one gave Draco Malfoy anything, at least not out of the pure goodness of their hearts. It was always a bribe, or a peace offering, always self-serving. Perhaps the boy had some idea of who he was.  
  
Skepticism still slightly distorting aristocratic features, Draco leaned forward and gingerly took the small box from the boy's fingers. He leaned back with an acknowledging nod, unable to bring himself to verbalize thanks, and opened the box with the same lethargic movements that had been plaguing him all day -  
  
And nearly yelped in shock as the frog jumped from its container and landed square on his nose, where it paused for a sticky second under his cross-eyed gaze before attempting another jump. However, its bid for escape was halted as Draco finally regained his seeker's senses and snatched it from midair, biting its head off vengefully.  
  
Through a mouthful of chocolate Draco noticed that his companion was laughing delightedly, a sound draco could barely reconcile with his fellow Slytherins' malicious giggles and snickers. Another first for the day: someone laughing around him for a reason other than a cleverly timed insult or well-orchestrated trip. It felt surprisingly good, and he was unaware of the answering curve in his own lips until a short chuckle forced its way through his vocal cords.  
  
"My name's Marcus," the boy told him, dark eyes twinkling lightly. There was a moment of expectant silence, Marcus looking across the aisle at him with something startlingly close to adoration, before Draco realized he was supposed to reciprocate the action.  
  
"Draco," he stated simply, suddenly not as proud of his famous last name as he had been a bare few months previous.  
  
The dark-haired boy's lips pursed. "I think my sister's mentioned you," he mused, dark eyes far away fro a short time, looking through a catalogue of obscure memories. Draco was unsure of how to reply, so he kept silent until the rounded features cleared.  
  
"I like you," Marcus announced with all the innocent acceptance of a small child, unafraid of the rejection that would haunt his later years. Draco was stunned to silence, just as astounded by his own inablity to form a coherent response as he was by the boy's frank admission. His first instinct was to snap back an insult, teach the child that one didn't like a Malfoy. One respected a Malfoy, feared a Malfoy, or even hated... But never liked.  
  
Instead he returned the barest ghost of a smile, looking once more through the chilled glass window. London had long since faded away in a final smattering of abandoned buildings and farms, and the terrain was becoming rocky and uneven, betraying to the mountains soon to come.  
  
Marcus watched him through evaluating dark eyes for a small eternity, and finally fell asleep, undoubtedly exhausted by the very idea that the train would soon take him to Hogwarts, the finest magic school in the world. Draco, though he didn't realize it, must have been just as fatigues, for the next thing he was aware of was the squeal of straining to slow and halt dozens of tons of metal and passengers in spite of inertia, and then the sudden rush of students gathering their belongings and crowding into the corridor.  
  
Out the window, students were swarming, happily reuniting, and whoops of laughter resounded even through the glass panes. A large contingent of the sudden noise seemed to be centered around Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins, as usual. Feeling a bit dirty, and hoping the sorting wouldn't take too long this year, Draco was a few feet down the aisle before he remembered the sleeping boy still slumped in his seat. Under some sort of obligation he'd never felt before, he fought his way through the mass of students happy to leave the train and back to the compartment. Amazingly, the small, dark head was lolled sideways in slumber. Draco frowned, unsure of how to proceed. Waking or being woken in his house involved either house elves or a lot of slapping, a treatment which he didn't feel like inflicting one Marcus. Instead, he shook the other's shoulder lightly, and when brown eyes blinked owlishly at him, he said, "We're here. You'd best go with the other first years."  
  
Small hands flew to a small mouth. "The sorting!"  
  
"Right," Draco affirmed.  
  
The boy straightened immediately, flustered hands running over his disheveled robes in a largely unsuccessful attempt to appear more presentable.  
  
"You'd better go," Draco reminded him, gesturing out the window, where Hagrid was separating the first years from the returning students in the flickering lantern-light.   
  
Marcus squeaked, darting into the nearly empty corridor. For another time that day, Draco found himself smiling almost wistfully at his antics.  
  
Taking a last compulsory look through the claustrophobic space, he noticed Marcus' bag, sitting limp and lonely on his abandoned seat. He had more than half a mind to leave it there, but he picked it up anyway. Marcus would be gone already, led by Hagrid across the lake, being as astounded by his first view of the towering, foreboding Hogwarts as Draco himself had been.  
  
Watching the bag swing from his one-handed grip with some distaste, he stalked from the train, determined not to appear that he was carrying a woman's handbag. After a scarce few seconds in the open evening air, Crabbe and Goyle fell neatly in step behind him, twin shields he should have felt safe around. Instead, it gave him the impression of being stifled, blocked from the world.  
  
"What's that you got?" one of them asked, practically leering.  
  
"Some first year's," he replied, falling easily back into his familiar contemptuous drawl.  
  
"Let's have a look," suggested the other, meaty hands grabbing.  
  
"You won't touch it," Draco spat, eyes flooding with a deep hostility usually reserved for Harry Potter.  
  
A frown clouded Goyle's stony features. His mouth opened, but any reply was cut short by a shriek, loud and shrill, tensing the muscles of Draco's shoulders uncomfortably.  
  
"That belongs to Marcus!"  
  
He was confronted by five feet and five inches of angry Gryffindor, identified after a brief scrabble through his mind as Lavender Brown. Suddenly it was obvious why Marcus had stirred faint recollections.  
  
"What is it, Brown?" he asked with the air someone whose infinite patience was finally being strained.  
  
"That's my brother's!" she yelled, and he noticed that she wasn't alone. Apparently, it was a Gryffindor get-together, and she was reinforced by all of her fifth-year housemates. The amny parts of wary, hateful eyes fanned the flame of his sudden anger.  
  
"Is it?" he asked mockingly, curling it around one finger and twirling gently. "Your brother's purse? So's he a total pansy, or just a bit of a crossdresser?"  
  
A sudden pang of guilt stabbed through him, and he was sure the results flitted across his face, as well, for Lavender's mouth, half open to begin some undoubtedly lame retort, dropped open, and was replaced by a look of confused concern.  
  
"Are you -" she began tentatively.  
  
"- Sick of you all?" he interrupted. "Entirely. Here - I have better things to do than go through your brother's damn purse."   
  
He could feel their eyes on his back as he walked away, aware that his actions were closer to flight than a triumphant departure wreathed in a blaze of glory. He didn't look at either Crabbe or Goyle, for he knew the bewilderment on their faces, as it mirrored his own roiling torment. He couldn't begin to work through the Gryffindors' reactions, though, and found himself suddenly, disturbingly interested in how his archenemy had taken his uncharacteristic parting before a conflict could break out. it had become his obsession of the past few years, goading and prodding exactly the right people or memories that could get the biggest rise out of Harry Potter. Yet he had no idea how their green-eyed savior would take this latest turn of Draco's character.  
  
Thus, the entirety of the sorting was spent struggling desperately to keep his eyes from Potter's profile, turned aptly toward the new students, entirely absorbed in their placement. He barely tasted his hastily consumed food, though the first night back was usually one for slowly enjoying pumpkin juice and treacle pudding the likes of which he couldn't get even at home. He left the Great Hall as abruptly as he'd left Lavender Brown earlier that night, lost and feeling wretchedly like he'd betrayed himself, his father, and everything the Malfoy name has ever stood for.  
  
And yet, though he sat until dawn streaked the sky orange and pink, he could not figure out the source of the gnawing pain whose tendrils seemed to stab right into the center of his soul.  
  
*blink*  
  
This was difficult to write. I kept switching tenses in that first little part. *dies* And I hate the last part. Dunno if I'll continue this, Maybe it'll become a vignette. 'Specially since I just got an absolutely wicked idea that'll have to be messed with ASAP.  
  
Notes:  
[1] I can totally see Draco going "Sukini shirou" with... hmmm... Maybe he's an Ogata Megumi kinda guy. And Harry could be Ueda Yuuji or Hoshi Souichirou and I can see Ron with Seki Tomokazu... Or mayhaps Sakaguchi Daisuke.*wonder wonder*  
[2] You know, once he was going blind. No crap about Monet being a muggle painter and stuff... I know it doesn't exactly work, but I think it's an apt metaphor. So there. . 


	2. Something Takes a Part of Me

This part may end up more slashy than the last. And I need a beta-reader, someone to bounce half-finished parts and random ideas off of and someone who can thwap me if I get too slow. Any volunteers?  
  
This is dedicated to Zara, who gave me the sweetest review I've ever had! *hug* Also, thanks to Apocolypse, Haruka-chan (*poke*), Androgyny, Tarot, Jivanna, and Goddess. Thanks so much, you guys! *group hug!*  
  
And to Mizzy, who made me laugh for one of the first times in several days... Can't wait to see what you wrote.  
  
People like my fic! *runs in circles*  
  
Also... everyone go read 'Haven' by Ivy Blossom, because it's written amazingly well. Scary, but well written.  
  
Part two begun: December 2, 2001  
  
"A Clockwork Neurosis" (the title, btw, isn't taken from the fic 'A Clockwork Romance,' but rather from a song by the band Plastic Tree)  
Part two posted:  
  
Part 2: Something Takes a Part of Me  
  
[Something takes a part of me  
Something lost and never seen  
Every time I start to believe  
Something's raped and taken from me... From me]  
KoRn, "Freak on a Leash"  
  
The same dawn in which Draco Malfoy finally took short refuge in sleep woke Harry Potter with a start, grass-green eyes snapping open, accompanied by a sharp gasp and a deep seated terror whose source he couldn't recall, but thankfully had been lost deep in his subconscious - until the next time he went to sleep.  
  
He frowned, that vivid green light still bright when he blinked, and pushed the dream out of his mind. Of course, his nightmares were hardly unfounded. Voldemort's return hung over him like a storm cloud spelled onto the ceiling of the Great Hall, yet Voldemort could do so much more than a latent image. The first casualties had been last year, culminating in the tragic murder of Cedric Diggory, an event that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He'd heard little over the summer, though even the utter hatred of the Dursleys and their menial labor had been a welcome respite from the underlying fear that had plagued his last few days at Hogwarts and the train ride back to the station. Each night he had fairly collapsed onto his bed in Dudley's extra room, too exhausted for anything but the occasional, detached nightmare that he could barely remember come morning.  
  
Now, though...  
  
Shopping with Ron and Hermione had been a happy affair, even though just seeing them had brought back the cold shock of Voldemort's rebirth and all its consequences. On the train, they had immediately been spotted by Seamus and Dean, who were apparently feeling some sense of unity, and had insisted on dragging them in to sit with Neville, Lavender, and Parvati. Crammed into the compartment with the seven of them, Harry realized how little he actually knew all his year mates save Ron and Hermione. Sure, he knew about Neville's parents, which had created something of a one-sided empathy, but he didn't even know if an of the other had siblings.  
  
That train of thought led naturally to the 'Marcus Incident,' as he'd come to call it. Lavender, in the presence of all the Gryffindor fifth years, had grilled her poor brother over how the bag had ended up quite literally in the grip of possibly the worst person Harry had ever known, with the exception of Dudley, whose time as Smeltings had done nothing but make him more selfish and vindictive.  
  
Marcus' explanation had been nothing short of astounding. Draco Malfoy had been haunting his thoughts since the incident at the Hogwarts platform, that curious look of sudden, anguished guilt that had flown across Malfoy's perfected sneer and left an irreparable wake. It was no stretch to say that silver-haired boy had fled, dragging with him enough of Harry's coherent thought that he was able to little but agree and laugh distractedly as Ron and Hermione chattered, and he could barely remember who had been sorted into Gryffindor, except for Lavender's brother. He'd been busy running through his mental catalogue of confrontations with Malfoy, searching for any previous warning of the crack that had appeared in the ferret's perfect mask of superiority. Yet he could find none, only that cold, haughty, despicable sneer that had haunted so many years at Hogwarts.  
  
According to Marcus, Draco had been civil, bordering even on friendly. if the boy hadn't appeared perfectly lucid and had Lavender vouching for his sanity, Harry wasn't sure he would have believed a word of the curious story that unfolded. The image of Draco Malfoy with a chocolate frog perched haphazardly on his aquiline nose would not be one he would soon forget. Even thinking of it now brought a short chuckle to his lips. It was almost... endearing.  
  
As he watched the sun rise majestically over shards of mountain tops, spilling over the inky smear of the forbidden forest and shining on the lake, he realized that he had never once seen Malfoy smile. A genuine smile, one of happiness or laughter, not the smirk that spread slowly like spilled, sour milk across his porcelain features whenever something went his way. It was curious; he could not even imagine the expression.  
  
He had difficulty reconciling Marcus' tale with his hard knowledge of what he could only assume was the real Draco Malfoy. The fact that there could be another side to that boy who had become his archenemy was had never, ever occurred to him, and that was upsetting, because it meant he'd judged Draco just as badly as Draco had Ron or Hermione. Well, perhaps not quite so, but to the extent that he'd never given a second thought to the idea that there just might be a horribly repressed but still somewhat good-natured person trapped beneath Malfoy's cold exterior. And that with every carefully planned barb or spur-of-the-moment insult, they'd been chipping away cruelly at that person just as much as Malfoy and his henchmen had hurt Ron, Hermione, and Harry himself.  
  
Could he truly have been that wrong?  
  
----  
  
A year ago, six months ago, he could easily have written off these doubts as unfounded and unimportant, as they were only dishing out to Malfoy what they had first received. But the Hufflepuffs still looked at him with mild suspicion or anger, and it was all because of his horrible mistake at the end of the Triwizard tournament, that had resulted in the death of the Hogwarts champion. Even a passing glance at Cho tightened his throat and the muscles in his fist and forearm clenched tightly, nails digging into his palm until they dug neat little half circles that left red crescent moons in each palm. The evidence of his failure was everywhere, in the guarded looks from the Hufflepuff students and even some in Ravenclaw and in the small memorial some well-meaning students had set up in Cedric's memory.  
  
He had left for breakfast that morning without waiting for Ron or Hermione. In fact, the common room, usually so bright and full of his good-natured housemates, had been silent and lit only by the sunlight streaming in through high windows. Hogwarts still seemed like a dream, and he was waiting apprehensively for the moment Uncle Vernon woke him with a hoarse yell and a heavy hand on the door. Whether he would be relieved or downcast to be back in the Dursley home, he couldn't say. The school's halls were foreboding and dark, weak beams of light threading through dust motes and serving only to call as pale shine on his surroundings and deepen the shadows in corners and cracks.  
  
A slight lurch beneath his feet distracted him from his dark train of thought. He had been traveling more on instinct than actual coherent thought, and hadn't even realized when he'd ended up on the staircase. Who knew where he'd end up now? Sighing, he resigned himself to the fickle, unpredictable will of the staircase.  
  
The stairs began a slow, cumbersome arc whose path, if he judged correctly, would take him to the infamous third floor from first year. His eyes widened as he realized that it had been nearly four years since he, Ron and Hermione had accidentally stumbled into that corridor, terrified of Filch's cat. He had been so happy then, nothing short of ecstatic to discover an alternate world so close to his own, where he was not despised or looked down upon, but in fact exalted because of something he could barely remember. He had been so successful, at Quidditch and making friends and making everything turn out all right in the end. Everything had been so cut and dry when the startled trio had taken refuge here; they were good, Malfoy was bad, and nothing had been able to keep him down for long. How Voldemort had returned, he was responsible for the death of possibly the most beloved student at the school, and even Malfoy couldn't be relied upon to stay his contemptuous, hateful self.  
  
It occurred to him that he had never inquired about the third floor since the destruction of the Philosopher's Stone [1] at the end of first year. However, just as he was reaching out to open the ancient, dusty door, a slight cough grabbed his attention.  
  
"You know, Harry, I never did retract my warning about the third floor."  
  
Harry nearly squeaked at that familiar voice, laden with the same mocking severity and wisdom.  
  
"I - I was - just - I -" He couldn't seem to think of a good reason for skulking through the halls like a criminal when it wasn't yet light out, and he doubted Dumbledore would fall for any of his excuses, anyway.  
  
"Whatever it was, it saves me the trouble of going all the way to the Gryffindor dorms for you... We haven't yet gotten a chance to talk this term, so if you haven't anything better to do, I'd enjoy a moment of your time."  
  
Perplexed, Harry nodded mutely. he was used to being summoned to Dumbledore's office at all strange times and dates, but before breakfast on the first day of term had to be a new record.  
  
Harry couldn't bring himself to question his Headmaster as he walked a meek step behind him, full to exploding of dread that something had happened to Sirius or Professor Lupin, or, foremost in his mind, that Harry was too dangerous and Dumbledore could no longer afford to keep him so near the other students. Absurd though it sounded, he knew how much his fault Cedric's demise had been, and not only were other parents probably uncomfortable with that knowledge, Dumbledore himself could hardly put an entire school of children in danger for one hunted boy. He was a liability...  
  
Nor did Dumbledore speak, whether out of respect for Harry's confusion or because he, as well, didn't know what to say, until they reached the entrance to his study. And then it was only, "Pumpkin tarts," just enough to get them in.  
  
Something about the familiar setting, whether it was Fawkes, resplendent and young in a corner, or the same furniture and decorations, right down to the cabinet housing the pensieve, made him feel more at ease, like he truly was as protected as Hermione said.  
  
"What is it, sit? Is there a problem?" Was it just his own dismal mood that dimmed the customary twinkle in Dumbledore's wise, kind eyes?  
  
"Not immediately, no. Harry, there are going to be many changes around school this year. Especially for you."  
  
"Changes, sir?" Harry echoed, mind racing through possibilities, none of which ended in a cheery, happily-ever-after scenario.  
  
"Yes. It's a pity you had to live in such a time, Harry. Though it has given you opportunity to shine so brightly, that sheen has come at a cost I fear it is hardly worth."  
  
Harry stared, unsure of how to reply or if he was even supposed to. There was so much he wanted to ask Dumbledore, but couldn't figure out how to word his inquiries. It felt annoyingly like an essay on a final, when you know exactly what you want to say, yet your thoughts just won't transfer properly to your quill.  
  
"Harry, I understand if you feel unsafe or vulnerable here; It must be hard to trust a place or its people when they failed to protect you before, and with such dire consequences. Indeed, you wouldn't be the only one who felt this way. Your godfather, perilous though his situation is, felt you needed a more constant guard. With Voldemort risen again and the chance of deception everywhere, he told me he wouldn't leave you under anyone's care but his own," Dumbledore finished, a slight smile flitting through his thick beard.  
  
"You mean..." Harry couldn't finish, nothing short of staggered and overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions that suddenly welled through him like a storm flood surging over a cracked dam.  
  
"Today at breakfast," Dumbledore continued, "you will ne introduced to a specially trained dog, acquired through Hagrid, which will remain by your side until this threat is dispelled."  
  
Once again Harry could find no reply. He had a sudden urge to urge to leap over and hug his aging headmaster. Being able to see and speak with Sirius constantly, even in the form of a dog - was something out of his wildest dreams. However, underneath his happiness, some of his dread was confirmed. The fact that Sirius would go to such risks - or, more important, that Dumbledore would let him act on such risks - meant the situation truly was grave.  
  
Dumbledore either took his introspective silence to be stunned shock, or just realized that little he said could assuage the boy's sudden fear, simply reached out and put an almost paternal hand on Harry's shoulder. "We will make this all right, Harry," was all he said.  
  
Nodding numbly, Harry excuse himself with the excuse of hunger pangs. Taking a roundabout, meandering path to the Great Hall, tried to sort through his twisted emotions. As soon as he walked through those giant doors, he would see Sirius again. The thought almost brought a smile to his lips, until he remembered again his earlier insight.   
  
He knew that a short time ago he would have been overjoyed at such news, no matter what the reasons.  
  
So why did he feel suddenly like his worst fear had just been confirmed?  
  
I HATE this chapter. It's downright awful, and I was so tired at the end... 'Twasn't more slashy. Next chapter, I promise... I have it somewhat planned out... Soon I shall have to start the sap... Should I be scared or happy?  
  
Notes:  
[1] This is much easier to type than 'Sorcerer,' which just seems to be spelled wrong. x.x  
  
Everyone, go to www.moderhumorist.com/mh/0005/harry - possibly the funniest thing ever. XD  
  
What'd you all think? *glomp* 


	3. Fighting a Battle of Who Could Care Less

My writing program's down... So I'm using an HTML editor to type. it's weird. I rely on the word count function, which doesn't exist. x.x And there's no damn spell (just as further evidence, 'spell' was originally 'speel') checker, either! So I'll be beta-ing as I post. Damn.  
  
I've become newly addicted to JLC and Jay Clifford's magnificent vocals in particular. @.@  
  
This part is dedicated to everyone who takes the time to review people's stories... Especially those of you who review the bad stories, and somehow think of good things to say. You guys are the coolest.  
  
Well, here it be. Part three. And, I realize a few hundred words in, it appears that slash will once again have to wait, because of plot's hostile takeover. Damn. I'll see what I can do. Also, Draco gets a little nastier... And a bit nicer?  
  
I went to see 'Lord of the Rings' on Tuesday Dec. 18 at midnight (or rather, Wednesday at 12:01 AM) and it was AMAZING! I love Elijah Wood and Legolas was cool. XD And it was just fucking astounding and I was so exhausted and I left my wallet and I got it back but they took the money out. Damn. x.x Least I still have my license.  
  
"A Clockwork Neurosis"  
Part Three: 'Fighting the Battle of Who Could Care Less'  
  
Part three begun: December 10, 2001  
Posted: February 09, '02 *wince*  
  
[Will you never rest?  
Fighting the battle of who could care less  
Unearned unhappiness  
It's all right, I guess...]  
Ben Folds Five, 'Battle of Who Could Care Less'  
  
It was easy, upon his return to school, to remember why he had acted so cold in the first place. With everyone once again fawning over Potter like he was plated with gold, Draco was reminded once again of why he so detested the very mention of the Boy Who Lived. And now, sitting unfortunately near to him in the Potions dungeon, Draco found he could not free his mind from the incidents of their first few meetings. Potter's frank rejection had been the first he'd experienced, at least from someone he'd actually cared about knowing. Never before had Draco Malfoy been denied something, particularly something he wanted, and all instinct had screamed for him to lash out, inflict pain on the source of the sharp pang that had flooded through his abdomen as Harry had replied.  
  
And yet, he hadn't succeeded. Sure, he'd managed to wound Weasley and Granger, and Potter was humorously easy to rile up, but refused to be put down by even the most vicious of Draco's ribbing. So it had become a battle of who could care less, who could wound who the worst in each short, caustic encounter, who was the quickest with words or wands and who was left flushed angrily in the hallway. [1]  
  
He'd been cornered that morning by an angry Harry Potter and equally disgruntled posse, who had apparently come simply to 'warn him off' - as it had been so succinctly put to him - Marcus Brown. Their not-so-menacing threat had been accompanied by an angry narrowing of vivid green eyes and a deep rumble from the dog standing guard next to him, one of the many changes this year, one of the many exceptions all for the Potter name. Dumbledore had announced at breakfast that morning that, in the interest of increasing security, all trips to Hogsmeade had been canceled until further notice. He had also told the apprehensive students that several aurors would be guarding the school - including the real Mad Eye Moody, Draco had noticed - and mentioned that a specially trained guard dog would be accompanying Harry Potter. He had reassured them that the dog, large and foreboding as he appeared, was actually quite friendly unless he sensed danger. And, they had been warned, he was quite good at his job. Draco was sure he'd sent a particularly meaningful look to the table full of scowling Slytherins with the last comment.  
  
Aiming a glare at Potter's profile, it became apparent to Draco how much time he had spent in the past few years simply making his nemesis' life miserable. He had analyzed every aspect of the dark-haired boy, searching for chinks in the perfect facade. He could recite Potter's schedule for the past four years, and could only recall with difficulty his first year classes. He knew who Potter treated as a friend, who was a casual acquaintance, and who he regarded with a slight wariness. Knew of the slight preoccupation with Cho Chang, that Ravenclaw seeker who sent a brief twinge through him every time Draco saw her. [2] However, the girl had seemed to pass Harry up in favor of Cedric Diggory, for all the good that had done her...  
  
Diggory. He had been stunned at the Hufflepuff's death, a more clear cut indication of Voldemort's rising than his father's gloating or idle, nonsense threats, whispered in the dark to faraway parties. Draco wasn't sure what to do. Lucius had made it abundantly clear for as long as Draco could remember that his only child would be a Death Eater, follow in his father's cowardly, slimy footsteps, which in turn slunk in the shadow of the greatest evil the wizarding world had ever faced. Draco himself had not, could not, would not form his own opinions on the matter.  
  
He wouldn't deny he had luxury. It was pleasing, sometimes, to watch the reactions to his surname. When he had been smaller, he used to believe his father had been a hero, with a ready wand and great courage, the kind he read about in his bedtime stories. However, it had become obvious as he'd matured, into the painful awareness of his surroundings which struck all children, that the flitter of emotions contorting the faces of those who met him were not awe and respect, but rather fear, or even thinly veiled disgust that soon quailed under Lucius' pale stare.   
  
Did he have that same glare himself, cold and benevolent as the deepest blizzard? Certainly he could stare down many of the students in the school, but he was uncomfortably aware that having the two biggest fifth years at Hogwarts at his shoulders had more than a minor part in the way other pupils avoided his eyes. He was not so arrogant that he was blind even to their obvious aid.  
  
Besides, he reassured himself, people hated his father - and often himself by extension - because they were jealous. There was much to be envious of in the Malfoy name. Much the way, he thought with a scowl that tightened the corners of his grey eyes, that he had come to hate Harry Potter. He was not so unaware of himself that he didn't realize that jealousy half-drove his incessant badgering the green-eyed boy. There was also much to envy in Harry Potter... He had come to Hogwarts a stranger in a very strange world, and had almost immediately struck up a rapport with most he met, made two of the fastest friends a person could hope for, had most of the administration of the school wrapped around his little finger... And topped it all off with an amazing gift for Quidditch and a sort of innocent, endearing naiveté and -  
  
He frowned, disliking immensely his current train of thought. Harry Potter was not better than him! He clutched at that resolve with the same desperation he had for four lost years, rejected and angry and hurt and left only with the resolve that his father had taught him - a Malfoy was superior - as his sense of identity.  
  
Next to him, Crabbe and Goyle lumbered slowly up, collecting their supplies and waiting for him to join them. Apparently, class was over, and he'd paid no attention to Professor Snape's important directions. He'd have to read someone's, but the list of likely candidates was short. Perhaps he'd be paired with someone who had actually listened.  
  
Potter passed in front of him, sandwiched between Weasley and Granger as usual. The red-haired boy glared as they walked past, and even calm, collected Granger eyed him with distaste, but Potter... Ignored him entirely. A slight flicker of those green eyes that almost immediately moved past, the same amount of recognition that Draco would give to a servant or a Muggle.  
  
A swift arrow of anger shot through him at Potter's disdain. His archenemy hadn't even given him the same modicum of emotion that normally flooded through his bright eyes upon their meeting with Draco's. It had been, in fact, as though he hadn't even seen Draco, concentrating instead on some sort of inner...   
  
Pain. That was it. Potter's eyes had slid right past him, eyelids heavy and mouth still, every line and muscle in his face indicating an almost palpable despair Draco hadn't noticed since immediately after the untimely end of the Triwizard Tournament. Harry Potter had barely registered Draco Malfoy, whom he normally could not pass without even a slight glare, because he was being torn up inside, most likely by guilt over something he had been told over and over wasn't his fault.  
  
And so Draco Malfoy watched them go, and for the first time he could remember, a slight expression of worry flew over his aristocratic features, so quickly it was almost as though it had been chased by the sneer that fit into place in the concern's absence.  
  
There! Vaguely slashy? Maybe? *hides* It's coming, I swear! I promise!!  
  
Notes:  
[1] Does anyone else know that Ben Folds Five song? I thought it was perfect. Originally, this part's song was something else, but this line occured to me as I was typing and I had to use it.  
[2] And why could this be? Hmmmm? *falls over*  
  
Shout Outs:  
Kath: Thanks so much... That's exactly the type of review I want to get. *hugs*  
  
Meitama-san: I don't think it's far-fetched, either... Just kinda randomly occured to me. ^^  
  
ClarkeRaven: I shall deal more with the Sirius thing in the next chapter, when we're back to Harry. Thanks about the character somment... I was a bit uncertain, but comments like yours are strengthening my convinction.  
  
ILLK: First to review part two! *flying glomp* Thanks!  
  
Beloved: I agree. Plot is a key part of stories, so I try and work it in. *smile* Thanks a lot. The stuff with Dumbledore was difficult, I'm glad you think it works. BTW, 'Rainy Night in Soho' was great. XD  
  
And Mizzy: ACK! I still need to review Your side... Shall be explained. Your last review made me laugh... Dialectizers are neat likkle thingies. ^^ Thanks so much for dedicating that part to me... *sniffru* I'm glad my badgering paid off.  
  
Wow! A Plastic Tree song just came up with a Ryutarou skin! *dances* 


	4. Anything Goes happy bday Weezer

Och... Part 4... Only partly done and I already have the lyrics for 5 and 6. O.O  
  
Well... I have lots of work. But it can wait for a bit. ^^  
  
What on earth is a Logos Naki World?  
  
The Tolkien lists are suddenly frighteningly busy.... O.O  
  
This part is dedicated to Sky, for the best review ever created on chapter 3, and for being a really neat person. *glomp* Yes, you've become my new sounding board. Be scared. x.x  
  
I want terribly horribly to see Weezer (Happy b-day, guys! I wore my Mykel shirt with the 'Buddy Holly' quote for those unfamiliar with B-sides and ran around my school with Audrey! AKA Carli...) and Saves the Day and Ozma in concert, but I have no ride to Nashville! ;_; That's the closest to me that Rivers-tachi will get. ;_; I want to marry someone like Rivers. Or any of Weezer, really. They're such a great band. The Blue Album is definitely one of the best ever created. I'm now dling Maladroit, with a reputation that preceeds it.  
  
'A Clockwork Neurosis'  
  
Ryan Harbin (Rerisu)  
  
Part 4: Anything Goes  
Begun: 22 Jan, '02  
Finished: 10 Feb, '02  
Posted: 14 Feb, '02. (Screw Valentine's Day, It's WEEZER DAY!)  
  
[Anything goes in this cosmic dare  
Anything goes so I'll take care  
Did you hear my heart beat to your lies?]  
Reynada Hill, 'Cosmic Dare (Pretty with a Pistol)'  
  
It was difficult to remain so melancholy around Ron, Hermione, the vast majority of the houses save Slytherin, and occasionally Sirius trying so hard to cheer him up, but somehow he managed. Perhaps it was just that: he was being treated like a pane of glass that would shatter if left unattended for a few minutes. Even the comfort of Sirius' presence was overshadowed by the gloom of his guilt and his increasing annoyance with the well-meaning but misinformed students who haunted his every move. It had extended beyond his own house to most of the school. There was always some Ravenclaw or that Hufflepuff girl he'd seen once last year hovering at his shoulder or watching from several yards away. He felt almost like a criminal under the suspicious glares of several hundred angry cops.  
  
He had claimed nature's call and fled the watchful gaze of two Hufflepuffs of indeterminable year; they had seemed to alternate between stern henpecking, starstruck awe, and a sort of baleful wariness, as if they had been reminded of last year's baseless accusations and their disastrous consequences. Hermione had dragged Ron away to do some long neglected studying, and Sirius had been called in to speak with Dumbledore about some other impeding threat or such danger to Harry's life; he was tiring of them quickly, and he viewed them with the sort of detached distinterest that one might reward a garbage can.  
  
Only now he wasn't entirely sure where he was, despite his many late night to early morning wandering through the darkened corridoors of Hogwarts, dodging a flighty Peeves and creeping Mrs. Norris. He judged that he was deeper in the castle's bowels than he normally ventured, by the slightly different smell and the chronic dripping sounds.  
  
He wandered fruitlessly for another fifteen minutes until he finally admitted to himself that he was completely lost. Perhaps it was because he remembered passing the gargoyle staring balefully at him from the corner at least once if not three times, or perhaps it was because his stomach has just growled at him angrily, and it was only a few minutes to dinner and he had every reason to believe he would miss it entirely. He was stopped an 'L' intersection that he had already taken both branches of, and done nothing but traverse in a giant, probably cross-Hogwarts circle.  
  
Not even realizing it, he had begun to pace in small circles, and he hoped it was just his own muttered attempts to retrace his steps that echoed off the gray stone walls. He froze for a heart-stopped second, muscles tensed and teeth clenched as he strove to be as silent as possible, particularly when it became apparent that those were footsteps reverberating over the distant drips, chased by muffled and obscure voices.  
  
Harry looked around wildly for an escape, fervently hating the idea of meeting more well-meaning stalkers when he didn't even trust his direction enough to give them the slip, but there were none to be found. So he stopped, feeling like a deer facing the headlights of a tractor trailer, as those familiar tones slipped slowly into words, and Draco Malfoy could be heard approaching, talking haughtily of someone else his father had fired for a "gross display of incompetence" that was probably dropping a soup bowl or not dusting thoroughly enough.  
  
Harry forced himself to look more dignified than he felt - muddled and lost - as his arch-rival - though quiet of late, he still deserved the title - rounded the last corner and nearly ran smack into him. Harry was forced to perform a rather awkward struggle to keep his glasses from falling to the dull, grey stones of the floor.  
  
For a bare second Malfoy's eyes spasmed through a startling array of emotions before they settled into their customary mild glare, ready to be deepened at the slightest displeasure.  
  
Malfoy's companion, a smug-looking Blaise Zabini, surveyed their quarry with a smirk that was a mere shadow of Malfoy's own. His mouth opened, obviously to begin some sort of ill-thought and dull insult, but Malfoy waved him on with the manner of a ruler to a peasant subject, and Blaise complied in perfect compliance with the charade, continuing along the passage to whatever direction the pair had been headed.  
  
"Potter! What a lovely surprise! What brings you to the Slytherin neck of the woods?" asked Malfoy in a mocking, superior tone, the kind that never ceased to antagonize Harry. He was leaning, comfortable and smug, against the cold granite wall, the lackluster stone lending an even greater sheen to his hair. This was no battle of looks in the Great Hall or insult-slugging match in a classroom, or even their carefully orchestrated Quidditch competition; they were in Malfoy's territory now, the point made and stressed.  
  
At Harry's silence, Malfoy continued his monologue. "Come to warn me off of Brown's little brother again? Scared I'll corrupt some of your fan club? You probably need every member you can get," he continued in an almost conversational tone, "after Diggory -"  
  
Just the mention of Cedric, so freshly murdered and so heartbreakingly perfect, was enough to send Harry crashing into his foe, one forearm pressing Malfoy's chest to the drab wall and the other ground into the uneven stone next to his silver-shining hair. Their faces were bare inches away as Harry said in a harsh whisper, "Don't you ever mention Cedric again! You're not worth the dirt he walked on! If you ever -"  
  
"Ever what?" Malfoy interrupted with a curious glint to his eyes. "Defame his memory? Insult our dead champion? He's /dead/, Potter! Dead because Voldemort killed him and you had nothing to do with it! So get over yourself!" He shoved Harry away, sending him a few stumbling steps backwards before he managed to catch himself, and stalked down the corridor in a way Harry thought he himself had taken many times with no result.  
  
Hoping this would get him the innards of the Slytherin partition of Hogwarts, Harry caught quickly up to Malfoy, keeping his quick pace while he argued. "You don't know anything about Cedric, or his death, or me!"  
  
Malfoy snorted at this, and Harry was abruptly reminded of Marcus Brown's curious descriptions of the Slytherin, and how delusional the boy obviously was. "I know more than you think, Potter. I know your suspicions about my father, and if they're true, do you think he keeps everything all to himself? It's all in the family, Potter, all in the family," he told Harry viciously, probably with the specific intent of reminding Harry of his own parents' deaths.  
  
Whatever the stinging comment' purpose was, it served only to make Harry, tired and confused and already annoyed at Malfoy, angrier than he'd been in years, "You don't know anything" he exploded. "You don't know anything me, or Ron, or Hermione! Why do you do this? Why can't you just leave us alone?" His outburst finished, feeling abruptly tired, yet exhilarated and finally able to expend the energy that had been pent up these past weeks, he turned to see the other's reaction.  
  
Malfoy sported a slightly triumphant look that vanished almost immediately, replaced by that superior ambivalence Harry had come to despise. And suddenly Malfoy stopped, extending one hand to right, and told him in a curiously flat tone, "I believe you should be able to find your way from here. As for you question: I'm a Malfoy, and you left me little choice, didn't you?"  
  
With that he turned, walking off with his well-bred grace and a set to his shoulders that seemed even more stiff and proud than usual. Puzzled by Malfoy's cryptic response, Harry looked at his watch, dismayed to find that dinner was nearly over.  
  
Though suddenly, he found that he wasn't so hungry. He eyed Malfoy's retreating back and debated whether to go after him, demand an explanation that Harry just couldn't seem to formulate himself, or just continue on to the remains of dinner and his guardians' nervous inqiries.  
  
"Harry!"  
  
His quandary was resolved as he turned instinctively to the sound of his name, seeing Ron, Hermione, and Sirius in the form of a large, midnight dog heading for him at a run, like they were scared that he'd disappear or flee if they didn't hurry. Risking one look back, he found that Malfoy had disappeared in a swirl of uniform robes and mystery. [1]  
  
"Harry, where have you been?" Ron asked, pulling up short a few feet from his quarry. His eyes were wide and his cheeks flushed nearly as red as his disheveled hair. Harry felt a quick pang of guilt at the panic flooding Ron's voice and how obviously out of breath he was. One cursory look revealed that Hermione was in much the same state and Sirius was likewise panting.  
  
He wanted to explain, reveal all his fears and grievances at his new situation, but was suddenly unable to find the words to even begin. And, faced with his two best friends in the world and the man he trusted most, all he could find to say, in a weak and half-convinced tone, was, "I... I got lost."  
  
There are some parts of this chapter that I adore. Some that I don't. x.x I could extend it, but I feel right leaving it there. I'll just go work on chapter five.  
  
Notes:  
[1] Possibly the lamest sentence I've ever written. . 


	5. Should be No Surprise

This chapter dedicated to all you who have mucked your way through my stretched metaphors and run-on sentences thus far, whether you've reviewed or not. You guys rock my waldo. (never mind 'bout that line)  
  
The slash rises slowly... I find that in each chapter I am held from delivering what I promised, so I give up. It's coming... eventually.  
  
'A Clockwork Neurosis'  
Part Five: Should Be No Surprise  
Begun: 08 Feb, '02 (yes, before part 4 was finished... x.x)  
Finished: 28 Oct '02 (whoo boy....)  
Posted: 28 Oct '02  
  
[I don't tell my secrets anymore  
It should be no surprise  
That I don't tell my secrets anymore  
Yeah from now on I only tell lies]  
Jump, Little Children, 'Secrets'  
  
He was antsy the next few days, nervous and even flighty as the guard around Potter doubled or more, a small clump of disillusioned students convinced in their typical mass mentality that what they were doing was for the greater good of the Boy who Saved Their World. It made his lip curl when he even though of it, how scarce months ago they had shunned him like he carried a rare skin-eating disease, convinced just as easily that he had murdered Cedric Diggory in cold blood and assisted in the rise of Voldemort once again. The dog never left his side, and rarely did Granger or Weasley.  
  
So now he stared at a sheet of Arithmancy homework whose concept eluded him as easily as he had been grasping for mist in the dark; as fruitless a quest as had been his short-lived pursuit of Harry Potter. He was nestled into an armchair of deep green velvet, a fire crackled warmly a few feet in front of him, and the majority of his housemates had left him alone after his initial attack on Pansy. Now only Crabbe and Goyle watched over him from neighboring couches, and he was reminded uncomfortably of Harry's unwanted escort.  
  
Yet he could not relax, as he hadn't been able to at all in the past few days, plagued by a constant nervous energy that caused him to fidget unnecessarily and absolutely destroyed his concentration. He threw uneasy glances, masked by their overlying enmity, at Potter every few minutes, convinced that anytime those green eyes would fix on him with sudden revelation, and Harry would realize what he had previously never bothered to puzzle through.  
  
He was unable to shake the suspicion that he'd said too much the other day, lulled by Potter's vulnerability, his sudden, fragile outburst, demonstrating that the Harry he had so tortured these past four years still lurked, buried under layers and months of guilt and confusion. He'd felt a small thrill of victory at being the only one able to draw that Harry out, the only one able to peel through the brittle, self-inflicted shell.  
  
And thus had come his frank admission, spilling forth from his lips in an epiphany that Draco himself had barely acknowledged and certainly Potter would be unable to figure through. He had dreaded that Potter would follow him, demand an explanation as was his wont, but he had been unexpectedly saved by the tardy arrival of Potter's Official Guard, the presidents of his fan club themselves, and that curiously intelligent dog. He suspected that Potter had told them nothing of Draco's badly needed assistance, for Weasley was throwing only the normal amount of glares and half-formed insults, and the dog paid him nearly no mind, as if he considered Draco not at all a threat.  
  
His pride raised a small riot, demanding that he do something to earn the animal's suspicion, which he was fully capable as a Malfoy and as Draco himself of doing. 'Did the animal not know who he was?' his mind demanded absurdly, lending sentience to an animal that walked on four legs. Yet there was something strange about the dog - the way its gaze followed people or objects in a manner too speculatory for an animal's dopish curiosity.  
  
For a breathless second he remembered their third year Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher; the werewolf who had taken such a liking to Potter. It wasn't as though Dumbledore would not risk the possibility of a werewolf loose among the students simply to protect Potter, but the dog was a constant, not the once-a-month phenomenon of a werewolf. Perhaps a half breed? It was a particularly vicious-looking animal, which had scared off some of Potter's most ardent admirers - that fourth-year Creevey and his idiot brother, for example - until most had been convinced of the thing's benevolence. Until threatened, of course.  
  
That could explain the apparent intelligence in its gaze. It was usually best not to ask how a werewolf half-breed, whether half human or half dog, was created, but they were supposed to be highly skilled and loyal bodyguards. There had been quite a demand for them in the thirteenth century, until it had been discovered that many were made in, to put it lightly, unethical manners, and measures were taken against their unnatural creation. However, wouldn't it be just like Potter to have another rule broken for himself...  
  
He looked up to realize that there was no one left in the common room; the fire was only a mass of orange embers and ashes, and he was quite cold. Closing his book on his unfinished homework, he resolved to put Potter and all things thus out of his head - at least until morning - and headed, finally, to bed. Tomorrow was a new day, and he could compensate for his previous lapse by being so vicious Potter and his ridiculous friends would wish it was first year again.  
  
Short and stupid part because I got lost in it.... I shall regain my train of thought next part, I swear. 


End file.
